


The Other Alex

by demonbarber14



Category: A Clockwork Orange (1971)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-04
Updated: 2014-10-04
Packaged: 2018-02-19 21:38:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,429
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2403806
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/demonbarber14/pseuds/demonbarber14
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The story of Mr. and Mrs. Alexander, starting with the first time they meet and ending with her untimely death.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Other Alex

“Well, that’s all we have time for at the moment, I’m afraid” Frank Alexander concluded his lecture nervously. “If you have any questions, I’ll be staying here for a bit.” He added futilely, watching the girls in the lecture hall began to leave the room. A few bolted for the door right away, and one or two had to be awakened by their friends. Frank knew it had been a disaster. He was a dreadful public speaker to begin with, constantly betraying his nervousness by speaking too quickly and laughing awkwardly, and he had forgotten how intimidating the gaze of University girls could be. The professor who had arranged for this humiliation congratulated him halfheartedly and went on to say how much he had enjoyed Frank’s early work. Frank mentally urged him on because he noticed that the redhead in the front row was taking a suspiciously long time to leave. She’d been one of a very few girls who paid attention during the lecture, and she’d actually seemed to enjoy it. He’d grown rather uncomfortable (and even lost his train of thought once) under her intense, worshipful stare, but knew he should talk to her afterwards. Lord knows he owed it to her.

Finally, Professor Erin finished another interminable sentence and, much to Frank’s delight, called the girl over.

“Mr. Alexander, this is Charlotte Quinn. She wrote her term paper on you”

“Did you?” Frank asked, idiotically, still shaken from his perceived embarrassment.

Charlotte nodded. “It was about how you view the fundamental human soul, but I’m just sorry I wrote it before that last book came out, because that one obviously would have been very relevant to the topic”.

“Good Lord, you actually read _The Autonomous Rider_? I don’t even think my publisher read that one.”

“Really? I thought it was fantastic. I mean, the way you put fourth all these new theories and expanded on all your old ideas was just fantastic, I thought.”

Charlotte tucked an imaginary strand of hair behind her ear, visibly flustered. She was actually talking to _Frank Alexander_. She couldn’t believe her luck at getting to see one of his lectures, and for weeks before had been terrified that something would put it in jeopardy; that she’d get sick, that she’d have to come home, that he would cancel, that she’d die. It wasn’t until he started talking that she felt secure in the knowledge that she would actually get to hear Frank Alexander speak in person. The lecture was even better than she thought it would be. His speech was very human; he grew flustered, took sips of water whenever he got off track with what he was trying to say, and spoke far too quickly. She was sure, however, that she could listen to him talk for hours and never get tired. He was so extraordinarily intelligent, and so charmingly pretentious that it was impossible not to like him as well as respect his work.

“Well, I’m very, I mean, really very pleased you thought so.”

“Frank, you haven’t seen the campus before, have you?” Professor Erin cut in. “because I’m sure Miss Quinn would be more than happy to give you a tour, if you’re interested.”

“Well, that would be marvelous” Frank said after seeing Charlotte nod eagerly. “My train doesn’t leave until six, and I have nothing to do in the meantime.”

“Alright” Charlotte said, reveling in her luck, and led him outside.

She got more relaxed as she showed him around the campus, slowly growing comfortable enough to tell him personal anecdotes relating to each building or dorm, and showing him the staircase where she tripped and broke her nose.

“Well, it’s mended very nicely” he informed her.

“You can still see it’s crooked, though. It healed weirdly, but I didn’t want to get surgery. See?” she ran her finger down the delicate ridge “it’s all bent right here”

The imperfection was fairly obvious, but Frank wasn’t about to admit it. He took a small step towards her and gently tilted her chin upwards. She giggled with a mixture of embarrassment and of pleasure in the knowledge that her favorite modern philosopher was taking time out of his life to look at her face.

As Frank “scrutinized” her nose, he studied her other facial features. She wore very little make-up, just enough to lighten the still-visible acne scars. Her eyebrows were unruly, her mouth was too wide, and the crookedness of her nose was quite visible. She was still very-

_For God’s sake, I could be her father_

“Well, I suppose it’s slightly visible, if you look at it from the proper angle.” He quickly released her chin and she led him to the final few sites; English classrooms, orchestra room, and, of course, the spot where Sarah Abrams stole her bicycle.

“You know, Miss Quinn, I haven’t eaten since about four-thirty this morning” he told her when they reached the far end of the campus and didn’t quite want to (let alone know how) to say goodbye “where would you recommend I have lunch?”

“Well, there’s a sandwich place a little ways down the road, that’s probably where I’m going to go. And there’s also a deli a bit farther away, which is very” _don’t say “nice”. You’re talking to Frank Alexander, so don’t say “nice”. There must be hundreds of other words to choose from, and you will not say “nice”_ “…nice as well” _Goddamn it._

“Well, if you don’t have any other plans, I’d enjoy going with you very much”

She led him to the small restaurant and sat at a booth in the back. They found themselves able to talk to each other with an extraordinary ease. Though all her passions were intellectual, she was by no means jaded. She could talk as eagerly and enthusiastically about Shakespeare’s distortion of the pastoral tradition as other girls could talk about whatever drivel they were watching on television. She was even marvelous at listening; she was focused and responded to what he said. After nearly two hours, he had to leave for the station. As he was preparing to go, he hastily wrote his address on a napkin and gave it to her, explaining that he didn’t have a telephone, but that she should send him her term paper. Frank hailed a taxi and after a rather awkward goodbye, in which neither of them knew whether to hug or shake hands (they ended up sticking to the latter), he was gone.

            Charlotte walked back to her dorm, attempting to sort out all that had happened to her in the last few hours. She finished her homework in a trance and when she lay in bed, Frank dominated her every thought. His ill-fitting clothes, unkempt hair, and awkward demeanor made the intense worship she had for him dissipate slightly and turn into a softer feeling, one that she pretended not to be able to identify at first. _I just met the man I’m going to marry_. She smiled at the thought, unwilling and unable to deny how much she wanted it to be true. She forced herself to stop thinking about him, but a gentle glow remained in the back of her mind throughout the night.

In his home, Frank had a similar dilemma. The book he’d brought on the train was engrossing enough to let him push Charlotte from his mind, but when he was alone in the bath, she made her way to the forefront of his mind. _Lovely_. That’s what she was, very lovely. Her conversation had been engrossing, her demeanor impeccable, and her knowledge extensive. He got undressed and climbed into bed, wondering if she would write to him.

Charlotte sent him her term paper the next day, proofreading it one final time, in spite of having gotten an A from Professor Evans. She included the proper instructions for addressing a return letter and pressed the envelope to her lips for a second before dropping it into the post box. After two breathless days, she got the reply. Her heart plummeted when she saw her paper had been sent back, covered in comments in red ink, but her attitude quickly changed when she read what he had written. His comments ranged from “Clever girl” to “Very well said and yes, that is what I was getting at” to “Dear Lord, did I really write that? I am a pretentious twonk, aren’t I?”

Charlotte read through the document a little bit at a time, savoring every word of his. There was a short letter from him at the end, written in the small, precise handwriting she would have expected. She read it through and felt herself beaming uncontrollably. He had asked if she wanted to read through the latest draft of his new book before he sent it to his publisher. There were the obligatory remarks that she didn’t have to if she was busy, or that she didn’t have to make any edits if she didn’t want to, but Charlotte paid them no heed, of course. She dashed up to her room and wrote back to him, incredibly proud of the fact that it only took four drafts to compose a response worthy enough to be read by Frank Alexander.

The book was mailed to her with many reassurances that it was just a draft and by no means a polished product and that did she not have to get to it right away. She dove hungrily into the piece of writing, reveling in its insight and form, and feeling triumphant when she spotted a small flaw and could consider herself a help.

She was finished in record time, and the edited book was sent back to a highly appreciative Frank. He found her notes to be exceedingly helpful to him, and after much deliberation, sent her flowers and a box of chocolates for her trouble.

Charlotte stared at his gift in wonder. No one had ever bought her flowers before, let alone someone of the opposite sex. Her roommate, Danielle, teased her mercilessly, especially since Charlotte kept claiming that the present meant absolutely nothing. She told herself time and again that Frank was just being friendly; the thought that he might have other interests was pleasing, to say the least, but foreign. She didn’t want to get her hopes up, so she constantly attempted to silence the nagging voice in her head that had been insisting—

_I’ve got to get used to the idea that nothing’s going to happen_.

They wrote to each other nearly every day for the next three months. Their discussions were entirely cerebral, a realm they were both familiar with, and after a while, Frank stopped proofreading his letters obsessively, and Charlotte stopped feeling as though she was going to vomit from excitement whenever she received one. Then, at the end of the school quarter, they met up again. Charlotte was spending her long weekend in town with her parents, as always, and spent all of Monday with Frank while they were at work. Frank and Charlotte spent the day together at an art museum, and after arguing over the Cubists, _Der Blaue Reiter_ , and _De Stijl,_ they ate at the cafeteria where they agreed that although some of the Pre-Raphaelites had their place, most everyone associated with the Art Nouveau movement should have been shot. He put a casual arm around her shoulder as they walked to the station and before she boarded the train, he gave her a gentle peck on the cheek. She turned and gave him a short, light kiss on the lips.

“Write me tomorrow, okay?” she asked, unsure of what else to say. “I want to know how your meeting goes.”

“Wha-yes, right, of course. I-I shall.” She boarded and he gave her a small wave before she rode the train back to school.

_God, what have I done?_ As the train made its way across the countryside, she reflected that being with Frank had seemed so much more natural than she would have thought possible. She hadn’t planned on kissing him, but it had seemed organic, to her at least. She knew that she wanted nothing more than to be closer to Frank, whatever that may mean. She was willing to make extra trips to see him if he wanted, and she would be amenable to going to bed with him if it led to that. She didn’t want her kissing him to change anything. She didn’t want it to go unnoticed either. _What if he misunderstood and thought I was just being friendly? What if he understood and never wants to see me again?_

_I love him_. It wasn’t confusing and it wasn’t painful, it was just a fact. One she couldn’t get rid of or ignore. She sighed and pressed her forehead against the glass window, silently praying for him to love her back.

Frank trudged home in the dying light, trying to keep the sensation of Charlotte’s lips against his in his mind for as long as possible. He knew all the reasons why he shouldn’t be with her, why he shouldn’t be interested. A brief glance at her Student ID had told him that she was twenty-two. _Twenty-two, for god’s sake_. He’d had three books published before she was born. He couldn’t even remember being twenty-two. Much as he tried to talk himself out of wanting her, Frank couldn’t help it. He reasoned that Charlotte would grow impatient with some idiotic boy her own age. After all, Frank had spent much of his twenties and thirties in relationships with forty to sixty year old women. He knew he hadn’t led her on in any way, not intentionally, at least. _Did she mean it, though? Is she just uninhibited with other people?_ Either way, he knew he didn’t want to lose her. As he reached his small home, he concluded that, hypothetically, if she did indeed feel about him the way he felt about her, they could, hypothetically, make a reasonably respectable match.

            Their letters continued the next day when Frank told Charlotte all about the latest little political discussion (or “meeting” as Charlotte always called them, enchanted by the idea of Frank as a dashing revolutionary) he’d had with his likeminded friends. He tried to make the note exactly like his others; not friendlier, and not more emotional, but with the same light, casual style he’d been able to achieve in the past. At first glance, the letter he received from Charlotte seemed much the same, though a tiny bit more stilted than he was used to from her. He came close to tossing it in his dresser desk along with the other correspondence from her, until he saw that something was written on the back. He turned the page over and smiled, reading and re-reading the words until he had them committed to memory five times over.

_P.S. I would very much like to see you again soon, as I think I love you, which you probably guessed already. I hope you feel similarly, but if not, I don’t mind and am content with remaining your friend. I thought it would be only fair for you to know._

He sat at his desk and composed a reply. The body of the letter was, again, indistinguishable from his others, until his own postscript.

_P.S. Name a date and time and I shall be there. Unless it’s the 17 th from 8:00-11:00 AM, as I am hosting a meeting. The day before might work wonderfully, however, since I am visiting some friends in Walkertown and you would be on my way back. You could even stay the weekend with me, if you wanted. It was extremely fair, as you put it, to alert me of your feelings, and as both our luck would have it, I feel the same way towards you._

 

He arrived at the station the day of the sixteenth, as per her request. She bounded up to him, and they embraced, after she set down the small suitcase she was carrying. He cupped her chin in his hand and kissed her warmly on the lips.

“All ready to go, darling?”

She nodded, speechless with joy and excitement, and they proceeded to buy their tickets and board the train. They talked all through the first half of the journey; she told him about her schoolwork and he told her the latest news on his book. By about nine o’clock, her speech became slower and her eyelids seemed to be fighting to stay raised. She claimed that she wasn’t tired in the least, in spite of the fact that she had been up until five. By a quarter to ten, she was snoring lightly with her head on Frank’s shoulder. He stroked her hair and calmly reveled in the fact of her.

 

“Frank, it’s wonderful!” she exclaimed, gazing at the interior of his house. She had thought that the neon sign reading “home” in the front was hideous, but upon seeing his décor, it was a delightful statement that matched everything else, for his home was filled with everything modern, sleek, and bright, yet there was an underlying sense of comfort about it. For all its sparseness, its strange egg-shaped couch, and its severe lighting, his house did feel inviting, and surprisingly like a home. He gave her a grand tour, and in each room, she found at least one thing to compliment. They parted ways for a few minutes and changed. As Charlotte brushed her teeth, she wondered what the bedroom situation was to be. He had pointed out a guest room to her, but made no mention of her sleeping in it. She changed into a faded pair of green pajamas and looked at herself in the mirror. _Do I want to?_

_Yes_ came the immediate answer. _I love him, so why shouldn’t I want to consummate that with him? And he said he loved me too. Even if he was lying, Frank Alexander told me he loves me_. With a tiny smile playing across her lips, she daringly removed the bra she had been wearing under her pajama top. She took a final steadying breath and opened the door before she lost her nerve. Because of the configuration of the house, Frank saw her almost immediately. She noticed with a twinge of disappointment that his eyes never left her face for a second. He offered her a drink, which she downed in an instant, her apprehension getting the better of her. They remained standing, unsure of what to do; the couch was too small for them to share, and dining table seemed too formal for the occasion. Charlotte began giggling as the drink combined with her nerves and started having its effect on her brain.

“You know, you’re the only person I’ve ever known to get tipsy off one martini.”

“May I have another? It was wonderful.”

He hesitated, not wanting to treat her like a child, but not wanting her to get drunk.

“I probably shouldn’t, though. I might do something stupid if I have another, and I don’t want you to stop liking me”

“I promise I will never stop liking you.”

 

Before she could reply, he started kissing her more deeply than he had before. Their earlier kisses had been too light and quick to really feel anything, and Charlotte was vaguely repulsed to discover how clammy his lips were.

_For God’s sake, it doesn’t matter. It’s not his mouth I’m in love with_.

She kissed him back as best as she knew how and within five minutes, they were in his bedroom.

 

Within fifteen minutes, it was all over.

_It will get better. The first time is bound to not be very good. It’s not as though it was_ horrible _. We were both nervous and next time we’ll have more of an idea of how to do it. Maybe he just wasn’t in the mood tonight. Even if it’s never better than this, it doesn’t_ really _matter. If I only cared about sex, I wouldn’t be with Frank. What difference does it make anyway? I love him_.Her last thought settled the matter and she rolled onto her side to look at her white-haired lover.

“Would you like a cigarette or something?” he asked sleepily.

She shook her head and pressed her face against his chest.

“I love you, Charlotte”

“I love you too. You’re the most wonderful man I’ve ever known.”

 

Charlotte woke up the next morning and found herself alone in Frank’s bedroom. She smiled at the small bloodstain on the mattress. She had lost her virginity to Frank Alexander, and there was no one else she would have preferred to take it. It wasn’t the memory of his cold hands or his boney physique that made her smirk; it was remembering how he held her afterwards. She padded softly to the door and read the note Frank had taped up.

_C-_

_Meeting going on in living room until 11. More than welcome to join us, but I thought you’d prefer to be clothed when introductions are made._

_I love you_

_F_

Charlotte got dressed quickly and made her way into the living room. The small group sitting at the dining table quickly stopped talking mid-sentence and stared at her, the women with some degree of bemusement, and some of the men with unashamed astonishment. Frank stood up quickly to greet her.

“Charlotte, I’m so glad you could make it.” He turned to the group at the dining table. “Everyone, this is Charlotte Quinn. Charlotte, I want you to meet David, Rhea, Zachary, Mitchell, Audrey, and Sam.”

Everybody at the table shook hands with her or nodded in her direction, overly friendly grins plastered on all their faces, and Charlotte greeted them in turn before excusing herself to make a cup of coffee.

“Really, Frank, I never would have guessed you were the type” David drawled once Charlotte was out of earshot.

“I think you have the wrong idea” was Frank’s rather pathetic retort.

“Do I really? A twenty-something redhead with the nicest pair of tits I’ve ever seen walks out of your bedroom wearing— well, she’s not conservatively dressed, let’s leave it at that, and stares at you like you were the messiah. Please tell me what idea I should be getting.”

Naïvely, Frank hadn’t planned for such questions, and quickly realized that he had no grounds for claiming that nothing whatsoever had occurred between him and Charlotte. Even the old “I slept on the couch” lie would be useless, since there wasn’t a single cushioned surface in the house that one could lie on comfortably.

“Frank, you do realize she could be your daughter, don’t you?” Rhea asked, her words seemingly carried by the cigarette smoke that constantly streamed from her nostrils and mouth.

“Yes, I am fully aware--”

“Where’d you find her, anyway?” David cut in.

“I was giving a lecture at her school and--”

“So all I’ve got to do is toss off some philosophical twaddle and be able to talk about it in front of an auditorium, and I’ll have uvee girls practically begging for me to--”

“David, for God’s sake” chirped Audrey from the end of the table “we don’t know what happened, and it’s frankly none of our business.”

Before Frank could agree with her, they were all silenced by Charlotte’s re-entering the room, steaming mug in hand. She sat at the table, embarrassed by who she was surrounded by; David B. de Silva, Sam Rubenstein, Zachary Dolan, Audrey Upjohn, Rhea Silverstein; she had read what they all had to say countless times, had tried to make sense of their fundamental theses more often than she cared to remember, and here she was having coffee with them. Her hand found Frank’s under the table and their fingers intertwined.

He watched her talk to them, watched her hold her own in conversation against men and women more than twice as old as she. She knew what she was talking about, along with knowing all the opposing sides. Her argument with David on what was meant by the term “free speech” was gorgeous to watch, her passionate discussion with Rhea on gun control, and the way they ganged up on Mitchell was equally stunning. She sneaked a sideways smile at him under her mess of shoulder-length hair and he squeezed her hand. She returned the gesture and they sat contentedly while Rhea and Mitchell ranted on.

 

Five months later, Charlotte was in heaven. Every day there was a letter from Frank and every weekend, she stayed at his house. They hadn’t been intimate since that first night, yet they always shared a bed and found themselves in each other’s arms when they woke up. After the first few weeks, they reached a point where much of their weekends were spent with Frank working at his typewriter on his newest set of corrections while Charlotte read on the couch or helped edit his latest draft.

One night, it took Charlotte longer than usual to get to sleep. As she idly lay in bed wondering what to do, _it_ happened. She tried to prevent it; she let cheerful pop songs run amok through her head, reminded herself of the glorious man lying next to her, but _it_ had filled her body, starting from the pit of her stomach. The worst part, and god knows there were many, was that she never knew how long each bout would last. Once it came and went while she was in the shower, and once she had spent nearly three months living with it. She’d once calculated that in total, about a year of her adolescence was spent in that nameless state; doing nothing but lying in bed staring at the wall, exerting nearly all the energy she had smiling weakly and claiming that she was a bit better, not wanting anything, losing all her interests, not feeling anything. She had thought she would grow out of the “episodes”, but clearly they couldn’t be gotten rid of for a while yet. She continued to lie in bed silently for another minute or so, but she soon realized that _it_ needed to stop, or she would never get to sleep.

“Frank” she murmured, too scared of herself to feel embarrassed. He was a light sleeper and awoke almost instantaneously at the sound of her voice.

“Something wrong, darling?”

“Frank, I—Frank, do you ever get sort of depressed for no reason?”

“Well, I don’t really know.” He mumbled, still not fully lucid. “I suppose I get melancholy sometimes, but it will usually have to do with my writing. Are you not feeling well, love?”

“I just--” and before she could stop herself, she felt herself dangerously close to being struck by the most embarrassing symptom, the uncontrollable crying. Once it got to crying point, the bout would usually last at least a week. Frank put his arms around her at the first quaver of her voice and she rested her head against him, calming herself with deep breaths. She explained _it_ to him as best she could, and that there was no relief from it that she knew of. He listened to her intently, tightening his grip whenever she seemed especially close to tears.

“Let’s try and stop it before it gets any worse, alright?” Charlotte nodded, grateful, though not particularly hopeful. Frank turned on the light and rummaged through his bookshelf for a few moments before finding something suitable.

He climbed back into bed and began reading.

“There were four of us- George, and William Samuel Harris, and myself, and Montgomery. We were sitting in my room, smoking, and talking about how bad we were-bad from a medical point of view I mean, of course.” He continued reading, and found himself successful when the hesitant, false, weak little laughs she periodically gave turned into the genuine bursts of giggling that he had grown to love. After about an hour, he stopped to take a sip of water, and she kissed him on the cheek.

“You’re wonderful Frank. I think I’m back to normal now.”

“Good. I hate to think of my Charlotte in any sort of bad shape.”

He turned off the light and she nestled against him.

“Really, I’m just glad you got better before the scene with the drowned woman; that would have set you back for sure.”

Charlotte laughed once more, beaming at the fact that thirty minutes earlier, the mere words “drowned woman” would have sent her into a crying fit.

She thanked him the next day by making him scrambled eggs for breakfast, which he insisted they share. He loved her more than ever, and it was all working so well.

 

They sat at the same table at the same time of day three weeks later, when Frank steeled himself to ask the question he never thought he’d pose to anyone.

“Charlotte” he began, as she ate the last remaining bites from her plate “what do you think of marriage?”

Charlotte repressed the urge to titter nervously. _He hasn’t asked me or anything. It could just be for an article. Don’t get excited, don’t embarrass yourself. Don’t act like you care_. “In general, you mean?”

Frank shrugged in attempted nonchalance. “In general.”

_See, he’s not_ asking _me after all_. “Well, I think that it’s fundamentally a very archaic tradition, and one could argue that marriage practices and laws have been partly responsible for the subjugation of women. Now, though, I think it’s relatively harmless, just so long as it means nothing more than the fact that two people have a little piece of paper to, I don’t know, finalize the fact that they’re together. It really shouldn’t be about anything more than that, in my opinion. Why do you ask?”

“Well, Charlotte, I was” he paused, knowing that there was no going back “wondering if you would like to marry me. You don’t have to answer right away, just think about it for a few days if you want” Her face practically burst open with excitement.

“Yes, Frank.” She put her hand on top of his. “Frank, I love you and” she bit her lip, unsure of what else to say “I’m just so happy. I can’t believe it.”

Frank grinned and brought her hand to his cheek. Even if it didn’t happen, she had said yes. If here were to be struck dead at that moment, it wouldn’t have mattered because Charlotte had agreed to marry him.

“Now darling, there would obviously be quite a few things to consider. I don’t mean to ruin anything, but I don’t want you to have any false expectations.”

“Of course, Frank” she continued beaming.

“For one thing, we really do need to discuss the fact that I’m, well, quite a bit older than you.”

“Yes, I have realized this. If that really mattered to me, do you think I’d have let things go this far?”

“I know it doesn’t matter as much now, but when you’re forty--”

“You’ll be seventy-one. I know.” She got up from her chair and sat awkwardly on Frank’s lap, running her hands through his hair. “I don’t care, I love you.”

“That’s no reason for you to have to take care of an invalid when you’ll be in the prime of life, so to speak.”

She gently put a finger against his lips. “I know what I’m doing, love. And besides, I don’t want children, so it’s not as though I’d expect you to be particularly active.”

“If you do change your mind, I will more than underst-”

She silenced him with a kiss on the lips. “Not another word about it, Frank. We’re going to be _married_.”

 

Married they were; two months later, two weeks after Charlotte’s graduation, he in a tuxedo, she in a simple white dress, in a small park where Charlotte had played as a child (“I know it sounds stupid Frank, but I saw a couple get married there once, and I’ve never been able to imagine my wedding taking place anywhere else.”). The only guests were Charlotte’s immediate relatives and everyone from Frank’s meetings. Mr. and Mrs. Quinn had tried to talk Charlotte out of her decision, especially when the realized that Frank was older than either of them, but their efforts had been in vain, as Charlotte barely paid attention anyway. She knew all the reasons people gave as to why she and Frank shouldn’t be together, and that the way she felt overrode any such logic.

Their honeymoon in Rome was a constant rush of delight for Charlotte. Everything from the buildings to the way the air smelled when the opened the hotel room windows seemed almost painfully beautiful since Frank was with her. He recalled every scandalous detail he could on the Roman emperors in order to please her, and every time they went out, he bought her a gelato.           They made love once on the trip, but it wasn’t appreciably better than the first time.

_We’re both tired_ Charlotte explained to herself. _We’ve been traveling for a few days and it’s caught up to us, that’s all. Once we’re settled at home,_ that’s _when things are bound to improve._ She rolled over and told herself to stop being delusional. _It’s never going to change. Maybe this is what it’s meant to be like. It’s probably like this for everyone and people just try and make it sound wonderful in all the books. That must be it_. She smiled down at the allegedly sexy red lace lingerie her roommate had gotten for her. She knew now that the passions it promised didn’t exist, but she could appreciate and laugh at its false sentiment, realizing that she didn’t need what it supposedly offered.  

 

            Nearly three years went by and very little changed. Frank was working on a new book, the title of which was supplied by his wife (“It fits in perfectly with what you’re saying and sounds so deliciously pretentious that everyone will want to read it. Who wouldn’t want to know more about _A Clockwork Orange_?”) and Charlotte had moved herself and her few possessions (books, records, and clothes) into his home. She taught herself how to cook and do laundry, after quickly realizing how inept Frank was in all areas of domesticity. They spent every possible moment together, content to simply be in each other’s presence, and not needing constant conversation or physical contact. Every night it was the same. Directly after dinner, Frank would start typing away at his desk in the living room and Charlotte would join him after she had finished washing the dishes. She would sit on the strange plastic egg couch, which she had grown to love, and read.

            The doorbell rang one night when they were thus engaged. Charlotte, being closest to the door, offered to see who it was. The voice on the other side of the door was that of a clearly desperate young man, begging for the use of a telephone on account of an injured friend. Charlotte wasn’t sure of what to do. She was always wary of strangers, and aside from anything else, there wasn’t a telephone in the house.

“I’m sorry, but we don’t have a telephone; you’ll have to go somewhere else.” She nearly closed the door on him, and tried to shut out the already strong voice of her conscience. 

“But missus, it’s a matter of life and death.”

“Who is it, dear?” Frank called from the living room.

“There’s a young man here. He says there’s been an accident and he wants to use a telephone”

“Well, I suppose you’d better let him in.”

Charlotte consented, relieved by the fact that she wouldn’t have to spend guilt-ridden weeks worrying that she’d caused the death of a young boy, all because of her silly paranoia. She unlatched the door, deciding that her earlier behavior had been unforgivable.

“I’m sorry” she offered as the door opened “we usually don’t let strangers in--”

Her words were replaced by screams when four men in masks entered the hall. Before she could attempt to lash out or escape, one of them grabbed her arm and dragged her into the living room. Charlotte was hoisted on to the biggest one’s shoulder in order to be kept out of the way, and watched in terror as Frank, her darling, her protector, was kicked to the ground and beaten. She felt herself being pawed and squeezed by the one holding her, his greedy fingers burying themselves into her breast, as she dangled helplessly. Realizing that any attempts to free herself would do nothing but make the intruders angry, she remained limp. Then, the one who was obviously their leader started singing.

“ _I’m singin’ in the rain”_

Charlotte could swear that she felt a physical pain as she saw him kick Frank in the ribs.

“ _Just singin’ in the rain_ ”

A searing sting traveled from her shoulder to the rest of her body as he smacked her with his cane.

“ _What a glorious feelin’_

_I’m happy again_

_I’m laughin’ at clouds_

_So dark up above_

_The sun’s in my heart”_

He shoved a gag ball into Charlotte’s mouth and secured it with tape, which he wrapped around her head multiple times.

“ _And I’m ready for love_ ”

He slapped her face with a casual brutality, making her continue to scream against the gag ball.

“ _Let the stormy clouds chase_

_Everyone from the place_

_Come on with the rain_

_I’ve a smile on my face_ ”

Frank was kicked multiple times, and a gag ball was placed in his mouth as well. It was a far worse torture for her watching Frank get hurt than being slapped and hit herself.

“ _I walk down the lane_

_With a happy refrain_

_And I’m singin’_

_Just singin’ in the rain_ ”

The leader left her sight for a while, and the sound of items being knocked off a desk, pages being torn ( _Oh God, not_ A Clockwork Orange, she couldn’t help but think), and a bookshelf being knocked over reached her ears. She hoped it meant being left alone; that they just wanted to steal a few things and weren’t interested in her or Frank. The leader emerged, however, still singing, and with a pair of scissors in his hand.

He gestured to the large boy, who let Charlotte down, while still keeping a firm grip on her arms in such a way that made it impossible for her to move. The leader walked over to her, opening and shutting the scissors threateningly and reaching for her chest. _Oh God, he’s going to cut my nipples off_. She wasn’t terribly relieved when he merely plucked at the fabric and stretched it out. “ _I’m singin’ in the rain_ ”

With the scissors, he cut off the small bit of material he held between his fingers. When he let, go, her breast was completely exposed, and her nipples hardened automatically from the cold. The fat boy holding her laughed stupidly, and she could feel his erection pressing against her.

“ _Just singin’ in the rain_ ”

He did the same to her other breast and she continued to writhe and scream against the gag ball, too filled with fascinated horror to look away.

“ _What a glorious feelin’_ ”

He let his hand drop down and unhooked her belt without even looking at it. He took it off her and tossed it away with a casual disdain, as if getting her restrained and undressed was proving too easy for him.

“ _I’m happy again_ ”

He crouched down and prepared to start cutting her jumpsuit open, starting with the pant leg. The stupid, laughing one instantly kneeled down and wrapped his arm around her legs, burying his face in the side of her stomach.

“ _I’m laughin’ at clouds_

_So dark up above_

_The sun’s in my heart_

_And I’m ready for love_ ”

The scissors made their way up, exposing her body to him a few inches at a time. She arched her back, trying to escape the feel of the cold metal against her flesh, and her screams became more frequent and urgent.

“ _Let the stormy clouds chase_

_Everyone from the place_

_Come on with the rain_

_I’ve a smile on my face_ ”

He finished cutting up the length of her jumpsuit and quickly slipped it off her, as the fat one made her step out of her shoes; those pretty rhinestone studded little heels that matched the orange color of her jumpsuit so perfectly. She stood completely naked in front of him, feeling cold and raw.

“ _I walk down the lane_

_With a happy refrain_

_And I’m singin’_

_Just singin’_

_In the rain”_

He took his pants off and gave her naked body a smirking glance filled with casual posessiveness, as she felt the fat one’s erection pressing into her lower back. The leader crouched down and said something to Frank, before the torture began.

 

Her legs were forced apart, and without any preliminaries, he plunged into her. Charlotte screamed even louder than before, which only served to earn her laughter from the other men. He continued ramming himself inside her, while occasionally pressing his mouth against her breast. The searing pain between her legs made her feel as though she were being torn apart, in spite of the fact that he wasn’t even as big as Frank. He came quickly, which she was grateful for at first until she realized that he and the fat one were changing positions. She prayed to not get hurt again, but she soon felt a pair of thick, wet lips clamped around her nipple.

“Don’t that feel real horrorshow, love?” the leader whispered, twisting her arm with one hand, and pinching her free nipple with the other.

The fat one started sucking and biting at her hungrily, grunting the whole time. With the first boy, it had been nothing more than a blur of pain and fright, but with this one, she felt everything; every centimeter of her skin that was touched by his sweaty palm, every movement of his tongue against her sensitive flesh, and each individual thrust of his long, hardened member left a fresh imprint of horror on her.

Once the fat one had his fill, he switched places with the one who was holding Frank down. He used his sleeve to wipe the saliva off her breasts, and delicately flicked his tongue over her nipples before biting them hard enough to draw blood and pulling her hair until she felt fresh tears welling up. Charlotte had screamed all she could, and whimpered instead at every new, disgusting, painful sensation being inflicted on her.

Finally, the last one was called in, evidently from Charlotte’s bathroom, as all her expensive jewelry was draped about his person. He stared and whistled admiringly, before settling into the routine of groping and plunging. He slapped her when he finished, making her feel as though explosives had gone off behind her eyes. She was let go of, and last boy grabbed her by the hair and rammed her head against the wall. She fell to the floor so that she was lying beside Frank. By the time she was able to sit up properly, they had gone.

 

 

Charlotte dazedly reached for the pair of scissors on the floor next to her and cut the tape that held the gag ball in place. She pulled the tape out of her hair with one painful tug, before attending to Frank, removing his gag ball as gently as she could.

“Are you hurt badly, love? We need to call an ambulance” she blurted out the instant his mouth was freed.

“I-I don’t think I can move my legs”

“ _What_? Oh, god, Frank. It’s alright, though” she attempted to sooth both him and herself “we’ll call an ambulance and go to the hospital and they’ll fix us up, and it’ll all be okay.” She stumbled into her closet and threw on a dress.

“Charlotte, you shouldn’t”

“I’m sorry; I’ve got to get us an ambulance. We’ll see each other in the hospital, don’t worry, love” she stroked his hair absently “everything will be alright”

She ran into the street, not noticing how cold it was outside or how much it hurt to walk. She raced to the nearby town, focused only on finding David de Silva’s house, not letting her mind go anywhere else.

By the time she beat on the door, her heart was pounding and her throat dry. She couldn’t feel her limbs, but whether it was due to the cold or the running, she wasn’t sure. It was a thirty minute walk to his place, and she’d made it in ten.

“David, help, it’s Charlotte. Frank and I, we’ve been hurt”

David opened the door before she could continue.

His eyes widened and his mouth fell open into a silent gasp. “My god, what--”

“I need to use your telephone, please. I-I need an ambulance. Frank, he’s at the house, and he can’t walk and I need a” she let her voice die down. He put a hand on her shoulder and gently tugged her inside, closing the door after her, as she was too dazed to do it herself.

“Let me call, I know someone who works at the hospital, so he can get you help as soon as possible. You just lie on the couch, and I’ll drive you there myself when I’m finished. Is that all right?”

“Tell your friend I need a-a rape kit”

He nodded, unsure of what to say, before making the call from his bedroom. Charlotte didn’t let herself think about what had happened. She still had Frank to worry about, and whether or not the _tests_ would yield any results. Every other thought was still pushed to the back of her mind. She couldn’t even bring herself to sit on the couch, and instead remained standing, staring at a small painting on the wall.

“I called the hospital, and they’re on their way to pick Frank up. You ready to go?”

“Yes. Yes, and thank you”

She got into the sleek, colorful sports car with him, and he silently begged for her to tease him about it, like she always did. Instead, she curled up as best she could, facing the window, and sat in silence.

“I’m sorry” David spluttered.

“May I turn the radio on?”

“Of course”

They listened in silence until they reached the hospital. He checked her in and held her hand while they tested her. A pretty blonde nurse came in to tell her that Frank had been recently admitted and that Charlotte could visit him the next morning. Charlotte recounted what had happened to multiple policemen, hoping that the more she repeated it, the less it would hurt when she had to think about it.

By the time she was left alone in her hospital bed, it was four in the morning. The dam in her mind burst and she felt _it_ happening.

_God, no, please. I’ve got to be strong._

She promised herself it would be over when she woke up, that she and Frank could leave the hospital and go home and they could live out the rest of their lives as if that night had been just like any other.

 

Sleep hadn’t done anything to help her forget. She woke up with the familiar stone in her stomach, and knew that wasn’t going to dissipate in the near future.

“Miss Quinn”

“Yes?” she managed to keep her voice even, in spite of the tears that threatened to push out.

“I’m Dr. Zendejas and…well…it’s about your husband”

“Is he all right?” she shrieked, her terror superseding _it_ for a few moments.

“Well, you see it…”

“Is he going to live?”

“Oh, yes, absolutely, there’s no question about that.”

“Anything else, I can accept” she sat back on her bed, relieved and the closest she could feel to elated.

“It seems that his hip was shattered.”

“The bad one?”

He nodded. “Now, there’s a small chance that it will heal, but considering his age and the circumstances, it’s—well, it’s highly unlikely that he will be able to walk again.”

Charlotte bit her lip. “May I see him?”

“Yes, of course” 

She walked unsteadily to the room that Frank was in, after changing into the dress she wore when she was admitted to the hospital. She didn’t want him to see her in that paper gown. Wordlessly, he embraced her as best he could while lying on the bed. He didn’t know what to say. She wasn’t all right, so he knew it was senseless to ask. She let go and sat beside his bed and held his hand.

“I’m glad you’re safe” he finally whispered, self-conscious at the fact that the boy in the bed next to his was clearly listening in.

Charlotte nodded, the effort not to cry too great to allow speech. Her exertion was in vain, however, as moments later she was sobbing against his chest. Frank stroked her hair and attempted to calm her, while the boy in the next bed put down his girly magazine and openly smirked at them.

Charlotte moved in with her parents until Frank was released. She had wanted to stay in a nearby hotel, but he had insisted that she not be alone. The results of her test had yielded no conclusive results, and Frank would have to use a wheelchair for the rest of his life. They came back home after two weeks, bringing with them Frank’s new male nurse, Julian. Julian wasn’t much of a comfort, as he answered every question in monosyllables whenever possible. He was polite and obedient, so Frank respected him somewhat, especially as he stayed out of everyone’s way.

Frank knew from that first day at the hospital what was wrong with Charlotte, and that no amount Jerome K. Jerome would fix it this time. She tried to hide it, so as not to upset him, but it was obvious to anyone who knew her as well as Frank did. No amount of false smiles and cheerful conversations fooled him. He saw the way she sat when she thought no one was looking. The way her eyes stared, uncomprehending, into space, the way she didn’t move unless absolutely necessary, and the way she constantly left to go to the bathroom or take a nap and emerge with more smiles masking a tear-stained face constantly betrayed her emotional state to Frank. She never complained, however, and instead doted on Frank and treated Julian like a houseguest, constantly offering him everything from tea to nicer bed sheets. Frank didn’t insist she tell him what was wrong, and it took nearly a month for her to do so.

They were on one of their daily walks, Frank wheeling the chair himself as always, in spite of Charlotte’s protests. They were able to carry on a light conversation, until Charlotte abruptly stopped talking and bit her lip, a signal that she was seconds away from crying. Frank glanced around in confusion, until his alighted on what she had seen, a dead squirrel in the road. When he looked back at his wife, tears were already flowing down her face, and she made no effort to wipe them away.

“I’m sorry, darling” she managed to choke out in between sobs. “I’m just feeling a little--” She had no choice but to let crying override language. “But I’ve had this before” she reassured him after gaining a modicum of composure “and it’s always gone away. It’s just that this time, I know—I know what caused. It’ll go away, like always. Won’t it?”

“Yes, love, of course it will, but you do realize that if there is anything I can do for you just to make you the tiniest bit happier, it’s as good as done?”

She nodded, and attempted a smile. “You’re the most perfect husband in the world” she bent down and kissed the top of his head “and I have never loved anyone as much as I love you” At that moment, Frank decided to dedicate all of time and effort into doing everything he could for her.

Frank lived up the promise he made himself. Every day, he had presents and praises for her, every meal Julian fixed for them was followed Frank’s informing his wife that she needed to eat at least one dessert before bed. For every advance Frank made, however, there was always a setback. A genuine laugh while watching an Alexander Calder video at a museum would be shortly followed by an hour-long fit of sobbing because she had overheard the words “brain tumor” brought up in a casual conversation. It got to the point where Frank considered it a good day when she didn’t cry more than four times. He tried to take her on outings, convince her to edit his book, or even read a little, since left on her own, all she would do was lie in bed, staring blankly at the wall, and take baths that lasted for hours. Most days, she couldn’t even eat at the table, and instead, picked at her food in bed. He offered her his company at first, but soon realized that human contact was often took more effort than she could muster, and would make her cry even more. There we times when he thought of sending her away somewhere; not necessarily to a hospital, but a place she could get treated for whatever she was going through. He got as far as researching places for her, but quickly gave up on the idea one night when she clung onto him in a fit of crying and claimed that she couldn’t live without him. The idea of going to therapy was even too much for Charlotte, so that plan was soon scrapped as well. Frank instead promised her that once he got more used to his wheelchair, he would take her on a beautiful vacation, and they settled on Vienna as a destination. The two of them spent hours talking about everything they would do there, and he was touched by how valiantly Charlotte faked her enthusiasm.

            One night, after Charlotte had been faring worse than usual, she began kissing Frank as they lay in bed together. He assumed she was simply being affectionate, until her hand strayed to the top button of his pajamas.

“Charlotte, what are you doing?”

She pulled back, clearly stung by his question.

“I’m sorry” she answered with the hesitant, monotonous tone he had grown used to “I just need to feel something other than this. Please Frank” she kissed him again “please”

“I don’t think I can.”

“But Frank, I think there are other ways of doing it that wouldn’t hurt your hip. Wouldn’t it be possible to…I don’t know, use your hand?”

It wasn’t that he stopped loving her, or that he minded the fact that other men had touched her; he simply hated any reminders of what had happened that night. Every time he caught a glimpse of her naked body, he heard the voice of the one who held him down; _“looks right scrumptious, all nargoy like that, don’t she? Lucky sod, getting to have a bit of pol from her whenever you feels like it. Bet you stuff your rot with her groodies every night; ‘s what I’d do if I were you. Not fair to keep all her pretty little plott to yourself, though, is it? She always creech that lovely with you, or d’ you have to like tolchock her good and proper first?”_

“Charlotte, I-” he knew he wouldn’t be able to explain it properly to her, without sounding like an ass and reminding her of that night. “You know what I think would be a lot more fun for you?”

“What?” she asked suspiciously, sensing that he was evading her on purpose.

“You know, I haven’t had much experience in—well anything related to that, but I’ve only ever done it that one way.” he could see her lower lip begin to tremble, and he knew that his awkward euphemisms we not what she wanted. “All I’m trying to say is that if you want me to fumble around with my hand down your trousers, I’ll do it, but if you want something more pleasurable, well, you’ve got Julian one door down.”

“Frank” she half laughed, half cried “you’re really willing to let me cheat just because it might make me feel a bit better?”

“I’d let you amputate my arm with a nail file if it meant seeing you smile.”

“I couldn’t, though”

“Why not? He’s single, young, and attractive. You’ve got full permission of your husband, and are young and attractive. I can make all the arrangements for you. Why, you won’t even have to speak to him. All I ask is that you won’t let this turn into a film noir plot where the two of you fall in love and kill me. Now, do you think it would make you feel better, even for a few minutes?”

“I suppose so, yes”

“And do you find Julian at least somewhat attractive?”

“I don’t know. I think so”

“Then it’s a perfect idea”

“But it just seems so-”

He silenced with a kiss on the lips. “Not another word about it, love. I’ll try and arrange everything tomorrow. Think you can wait that long, or do you want some awkward fumbling with my hand as a precursor?”

“That’s all right, Frank. You’ve done so much for me, and when I’m better, I swear I’ll make it up to you.”

“Seeing you well is the only reward I’ll need. And you will get better. Whether or not this works, you’ll get better, I promise.”

She settled in her customary position with her head on his chest as he mentally rehearsed what he would say to Julian.

***

“May I ask you something a little strange?”

“Yes sir”

“Do you find Charlotte pretty? Now, I just want your honest opinion.”

“I suppose so, sir.”

“Good. Now, you’d like to get her out of her present condition, wouldn’t you? In any way you could?”

“Within reason.”

“Excellent, because she and I both think that physical stimulation, for want of a better phrase, could be a potential, partial cure for her, but I am obviously unable to, shall we say, satisfy her. Are you following me? The uncomfortable way you’re looking at me makes me think you are.”

“I don’t want to jump to any conclusions, sir.”

“Julian, I am asking you to sleep with my wife. She’s all for the idea, if that makes any sort of difference.”

“Sir, if you think it would help her at all, I should consider it something of an honor.”

“Julian, would it be offensive if I paid you extra this week?”

“I think it would, sir.”

“Then I shall just thank you for being so incredibly…loyal.”

“That’s quite all right, sir.”

Frank smiled. “Expect her at about nine-thirty, alright?”

“Yes, sir.”

 

            Frank lay in bed that night, listening in as best he could on what was happening in Julian’s room. He could make out many small groans and giggles from her, which were often followed by soft cries of ecstasy. Frank knew he had never been able to satisfy her that way, and certainly not to the extent Julian apparently could. He didn’t mind being cheated on as much as he thought he would. She was his Charlotte, no matter who was in bed with her, and if sleeping with someone would help her get over her present difficulties, he was glad of it. After an hour and a half, Charlotte came into the bedroom and lay down beside Frank. She never quite realized how much he loved her until that moment. _That’s something to be glad for, isn’t it?_

“How’d it go?”

“It was—well, it was enjoyable. He did some weird things, but he seemed to know what to do.”

“What sort of weird things?’ Frank asked as Charlotte nestled her head against his shoulder.

“He put his tongue—where tongues have no business being”

“Well, did you like it?”

“I don’t know. I” she searched for a word that wasn’t too vulgar “reacted before I could tell how it felt.”

“So it did make you feel something other than…” his voice trailed off.

She nodded. “I think it was a good idea” she pressed further into his shoulder and laughed. It was the first time she had so much as smiled effortlessly. It all seemed so ridiculous at that moment; her husband suggesting she cheat with the man who worked for them, on the off-chance it would make her happy. “Tomorrow morning’s going to be a bit awkward, isn’t it?”

“My pretty Charlotte” he kissed the top of her head “I am going to give Julian the morning off tomorrow and take you out for breakfast, if you can manage.”

She laughed again, wanting to take every advantage of the depression’s ebb, and stroked his thinning white hair.

“I love you, Frank. I don’t deserve you, but I love you.”

 

Within a few weeks, Charlotte began improving. There were still inexplicable tears and days when she would do nothing but stare blankly at the bedroom wall, but about six months after her rape, those times were the minority. Frank began planning their trip to Vienna in earnest, with Charlotte making requests he was delighted to add to their itinerary. Fearing another relapse, Frank continued to make her happy in any way he could think of. He bought her every book she so much as glanced at, took her to every interesting art exhibit or movie, and let her continue her nightly activities with Julian.

One night they were sitting in their usual places, he writing at his desk, she reading on the couch. She walked over to him and he expected her usual “’night, darling. Don’t stay up too late”, but instead, he heard “Frank, does my forehead feel warm to you?” He pressed his palm against her.

“Yes, I think you might have a little fever. Are you feeling congested or anything?”

She nodded. “It’s probably just my annual cold. Can you tell Julian to get me something from the pharmacy tomorrow if we don’t have anything in the house?”

“Of course. See if you can sleep it off.”

She kissed the top of his head and ruffled his hair.

“’night, darling. Don’t stay up too late”

He smiled and continued with his latest edits.

The next morning, she didn’t feel up to going anywhere, but was able to read and eat dinner, so Frank wasn’t too worried. _She’s caught a cold every year since she was twelve, there’s nothing unusual about it. She’s probably still weak from what she went through. She barely ate or got out of bed for months, of course it will take her a little while to get back to normal. If it lasts more than two weeks, we’ll call a doctor_. She was smiling again, that was what mattered, not the fact that she was coughing more than usual. He didn’t want to worry her again with talk of doctors and sickness just when she started enjoying herself again.

 

After a week with no improvement, Julian approached him with an uncharacteristic hesitancy.

“Sir, it might be wise for you to call a doctor sooner rather than later”

“Why’s that, Julian?” Frank inquired, trying to hide the sudden anxiety that overtook him.

“I think she may have influenza, sir.”

“Really?” Frank’s voice and blood went cold at the same time.

“I obviously can’t be sure, sir, but she seems to have most of the symptoms”

“Well, I said I’d wait two weeks, so I’ll call then. If it is just a cold, it will have gone away by that time.”

“Sir, I would highly recommend that you call right away.”

“Oh” Frank’s shoulders hunched forward slightly. “I’ll call now, then”

 

“I’m afraid it’s influenza, Mr. Alexander”

“Alright. What does that mean logistically? We’re going to Vienna in three weeks, will she be well enough to go by that time?”

The doctor sighed and pushed his glasses up to the bridge of his nose. “If we’re lucky, sir, but she seems to have a very bad case. I think she should go to a hospital, just so she can get the best care. We really don’t want to take any risks at this stage. There’s a good chance that if she goes to the hospital now, we’ll be able to treat it.”

“What do you mean, ‘a good chance’? For God’s sake” Frank laughed hysterically “she’s going to _live_ , isn’t she?”

The doctor’s pause told Frank all he needed to know.

“I’ll drive her to the hospital tomorrow” Frank whispered. “Do you know what caused it?”

The doctor shrugged. “Flu season. There’s been a pretty bad epidemic this year.”

“I understand. Thank you doctor, and I’ll have her in the hospital tomorrow.”

Frank knew whose fault it was. It wasn’t the epidemic that did it, it was that boy. _Those_ boys who had attacked her, they were the ones to blame for it. Charlotte was a healthy girl, at any other time her immune system could have won out against the flu. They had made her weak, though. They had made her want to stop living. If it hadn’t been the flu, it would have been something else, but it was entirely their doing. He wished he could force them to look at her, look at how pale and gaunt she was, how she jumped whenever she heard footsteps behind her, and gasped slightly whenever she heard a voice that sounded vaguely like one of theirs. He knew they didn’t care what they had done to her, but he wanted them to _see_.

His contemplations were interrupted by a small murmur from the bedroom.

“Frank”

He wheeled himself to the side of Charlotte’s bed and held her hand.

“So, I’m going to the hospital tomorrow?”

“Yes, but there’s no need to worry. There’s absolutely nothing wrong with you.”

“The doctor told me, Frank. And I heard him talking to you. I know what’s going on. Oh, don’t cry, darling!” She exclaimed, before Frank even realized he was. “It’s just a flu. I’ll go the hospital and I’ll be in perfect shape.” She gave him a smile that was meant to be reassuring, but the fear behind it was palpable. “I am not going to die.”

 

She was admitted into the hospital the next day. David de Silva was able to use his connections to get her a private room, and Frank practically moved in with her, going back home only when the nurses had told him multiple times to leave. Charlotte retained her weak but genuine smiles, and her eagerness to listen to Frank read out loud to her. Nothing she did on the afternoon of the twenty-fourth indicated what was to happen that night. There was no heartfelt speech or confession, no last minute declarations of love. She merely sat and listened to Frank read the entire time, and her final words to him were “don’t forget the dustcover”.

 

He got the call informing him that she had died three hours after he left her. 

 

There was a small funeral for her, roughly the size of their wedding. Frank left halfway through. Charlotte had hated funerals; she wouldn’t have wanted one herself.

 

Frank considered moving, and knew all the reasons why he should, that it would somehow help him forget. He didn’t want to forget, though. He wanted to see the couch she always sat in, wanted her clothes still hanging in her closet, wanted to be able to open her small perfume vial and remind himself of the scent he had always taken for granted. He had his favorite picture of her blown up and put by his bed, so that he could re-live taking it every night. He wanted the memory of her to pervade all his waking moments. As long as he still lived in their home, there was a chance that she could walk into the room and he could tell her just how much he loved her.

The End

    

 

    

    

    

  

 

      

      

      

 

 

 

 


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